Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "THE BLACK CROSS FLAG WAS HAULED DOWN,
AND REHOISTED UNDER THE WHITE ENSIGN"]
The Submarine Hunters
A Story of Naval Patrol
Work in the Great War
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of
"Rounding Up the Raider"
"The Dispatch-Riders"
"The Fight for Constantinople"
&c. &c.
_Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
1918
Contents
CHAP.
I. THE MYSTERIOUS MEETING ON ST. MENA'S ISLAND
II. THE TABLES TURNED
III. KIDNAPPED
IV. THE AWAKENING
V. ABOARD U75
VI. THE TRAMP
VII. ON THE BED OF THE SEA
VIII. BALKED BY A SEA-PLANE
IX. THE LANDING AT PORT TREHERNE
X. A TREACHEROUS PLOT
XI. PREPARATIONS
XII. THE WHITE FLAG--AND AFTERWARDS
XIII. THE ARM OF THE LAW
XIV. A FRUITLESS QUEST
XV. THE ADMIRAL WORKS THE ORACLE
XVI. H.M.S. "CAPELLA"
XVII. A DOUBLE BAG
XVIII. THE SMOKE-SIGNALS
XIX. THAT FRIDAY NIGHT
XX. TO THE RESCUE
XXI. ADRIFT IN THE CHANNEL
XXII. AN UNEXPECTED CAPTURE
XXIII. MINED
XXIV. "SHRAP"
XXV. OFF THE BELGIAN COAST
XXVI. DISABLED IN MID-AIR
XXVII. NOT ON PAROLE
XXVIII. ALMOST RECAPTURED
XXIX. BOUND FOR THE BALTIC
XXX. THE AFFAIR OFF KIEL
Illustrations
"THE BLACK CROSS FLAG WAS HAULED DOWN AND
RE-HOISTED UNDER THE WHITE ENSIGN" . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
THE INTERVIEW WITH THE GERMAN CAPTAIN (missing from book)
"'D'YE KEN YON?' ASKED THE BRITISH SKIPPER, AS HE
EYED THE PODGY GERMAN LEUTNANT WITH CONTEMPT"
"THE 'TREMENDOUS' WAS HEADING STRAIGHT FOR THE DOOMED SUBMARINE"
THE SINKING OF THE "ORONTABELLA" (missing from book)
"THE WORK OF DEMOLITION WAS ACCOMPLISHED"
THE SUBMARINE HUNTERS
CHAPTER I
The Mysterious Meeting on St. Mena's Island
"We've made a proper mess of things this time!" ejaculated Ross
Trefusis--"or rather I have."
"It can't be helped," rejoined his chum, Vernon Haye. "We've done our
level best to get her off. How long is it before the tide floats her?"
"A matter of seven or eight hours, worse luck. You see, it was only
half ebb when we landed."
Ross bent down to remove a streak of bluish-grey mud from his ankle.
"I wish we'd taken the rowing-boat instead of this heavy old tub," he
continued. "We'll be pretty peckish before we get back to the Hall,
and dinner's at seven-thirty."
Vernon laughed.
"It wouldn't be the first time I've had to go without grub," he
remarked. "If you don't mind, I don't."
"Then it's no use standing here," said Ross. "Let's get on our shoes
and go for a stroll."
Vernon Haye was a broad-shouldered lad of fifteen, with clear-cut
features and dark hair. His companion was of about the same age, but a
good two inches taller. His complexion was florid, his hair of an
auburn tint that narrowly escaped coming within the category of red or
ginger. His features were full and rounded. In short, he was a
typical Cornish youth.
Ross's father, Admiral Paul Trefusis, lived at Killigwent Hall, a
large, rambling, sixteenth-century house, standing within a mile of the
sea on the North Cornish coast.
Both lads went to the same public school, but owing to the fact that
Vernon's father, Captain Haye, was on active service with the Grand
Fleet, young Haye was spending the summer holidays with his chum at
Killigwent Hall.
That afternoon the lads had taken a small sailing-boat and had made for
St. Mena's Island, a small rocky piece of land lying about a mile off
shore, and nearly five miles from Killigwent Cove. The island was
roughly three-quarters of a mile in length, and four hundred yards wide
in the broadest part. The north and west sides were precipitous, but
on the side nearest to the mainland the ground sloped gradually, and
was indented by several narrow tidal coves.
The glamour of romance lay thickly around that rocky pile. Centuries
ago it was the abode of a hermit, who, amongst his various self-imposed
tasks, had built a chapel on the summit, from the tower of which a wood
fire was kindled nightly to warn mariners of the treacherous reefs in
the vicinity of the island.
In course of time, St. Mena's Island became the haunt of wreckers and
smugglers. The chapel, in spite of its massive construction, fell a
victim to the ravages of wind and weather, but still served as a
convenient shelter for the lawless Cornishmen who profited by the
misfortunes of honest seamen. Immune from interference, by reason of
the superstitious awe in which the island was held by the country-folk,
the smugglers and wreckers thrived exceedingly until late in the
eighteenth century, when stern measures were taken to suppress their
misdeeds. From that time St. Mena's Island was deserted, except for
the casual visits of tourists and summer visitors from the neighbouring
towns of Padstow and Newquay, and countless numbers of sea-birds that
take up their abode in crannies in the almost inaccessible cliffs.
Ross Trefusis was right in taking the blame of their misfortunes upon
himself. He knew better, but, neglecting to take ordinary precautions,
he had allowed the boat to be left high and dry by the falling tide.
Upon returning to the cove the lads had found the heavy craft lying on
its bilge in the stiff bluish clay, with a ridge of jagged rocks
cutting her off from the sea.
"Perhaps," suggested Vernon, "some other boat will put off to the
island, and we can get them to put us ashore."
"Hardly likely," was the reply. "Anyway, we'll keep a look-out. Which
would you prefer to do--explore the Smugglers' Cave and Dead Man's
Cave, or climb up to the ruins?"
"The ruins," decided young Haye eagerly. "I like fooling about old
ruins, and I've already seen the caves. Besides, we can see if there
are any boats about. It's almost like being shipwrecked on a desert
island."
"Hard lines if we were," commented Ross. "Suppose we take an inventory
of our possessions? Let the see: one pocket-knife, a silver watch that
has refused duty, a notebook and pencil, and five shillings and three
halfpence. What have you to add to the common stock?"
"A knife, a pocket compass, my watch--which does go; it's now
five-and-twenty to four--and sixteen shillings and eightpence in paper
money and hard coin."
"Not a morsel of grub between the pair of us, then," declared Ross.
"Outlook beastly unpromising. Faced with starvation unless we make up
our minds to knock over some gulls. They are horribly fishy to eat, I
believe, and we've nothing to make a fire."
"It makes you pine for the flesh-pots of Kllligwent Hall, old man,"
exclaimed Vernon laughingly. "Never mind, let's make a move. I vote
we get rid of these sweaters. It is frightfully hot."
Stripping off their woollen garments, and placing them for safety under
a gorse bush, the two lads made their way up the steep ascent to the
ruins, till, hot and well-nigh breathless in spite of being "in
training", they reached the summit of the island.
"What a jolly view!" exclaimed Vernon, turning and taking in the
panorama of rocky coast-line, an expanse of jagged, frowning, brownish
cliffs topped by the brilliant green of the Cornish moorland.
"Not bad," agreed Ross complaisantly, for the view was no stranger to
him. "See that cliff shaped like the head and shoulders of a bearded
man? That's Hidden Money Cove that I was speaking to you about last
night. We'll go there next week, all being well. You see, there's not
a sail in sight, so our chances of getting back to dinner are very
remote. What's more, unless I'm very much mistaken, there's a
rain-storm coming. See that dark cloud working up against the wind?"
"Yes," assented Haye. "What of it? A little rain won't hurt."
"It's the after effect," said Ross. "It's quite possible it may blow
hard before night, in which case we're done for. I've known it
impossible to approach Killigwent Cove for a week at a time."
Vernon whistled.
"Sounds lively," he remarked.
"Of course that is in the winter," his chum hastened to remind him.
"These summer gales don't last very long, but we'll be feeling precious
hungry by the time we get home, I guess."
"Look here," said Vernon after a while. "I vote we get those sweaters.
We don't want to be soaked."
"Very well," assented Ross. "But there's no great hurry."
Having retrieved the sweaters, the chums leisurely retraced their way
to the ruins. For half an hour or more they wandered around the
remains, descending into the dark crypt, and running considerable risk
in climbing to the summit of the tower. Since the spiral stone steps
had vanished long ago, the only means of getting to the top was by
climbing the gnarled stem of the ivy which grew profusely on the face
of the building. The tower was roofless, a low, partly demolished
parapet encircling it on three sides, while a couple of weather-worn
oak-beams supporting a few planks formed a kind of platform where the
roof formerly existed.
"Think it's safe?" asked Vernon anxiously, as his chum, having got
astride the parapet, was about to lower himself upon the decrepit
woodwork.
"I've done it scores of times," said Ross confidently. "That's right,
I'll guide your foot. Now let go."
"By Jove!" suddenly exclaimed Haye; "there's a fellow coming towards
the ruin. How on earth did he get here?"
"Goodness only knows," said Trefusis inconsequently. "He may have
landed in Main Beach Cove. Anyhow, he's at perfect liberty to do so.
I suppose he's interested in ruins."
"Let's drop a bit of stone and give him a shock when he gets here,"
suggested Vernon. "We'll apologize afterwards. Ten to one he'll give
us a passage back."
"I'm not so keen on dropping chunks of stone," objected Ross. "I vote
we lie low for a bit at any rate, and see what he's up to."
"Why, do you think he's a spy?" asked his companion. Trefusis grunted
scoffingly.
"Spy?" he repeated. "What object would a spy have on St. Mena's
Island? This part of Cornwall is well outside the military area.
There's nothing in the fortification line for miles. No, it's not
that. But _cave_, here he comes."
The lads crouched behind the crumbling parapet, and by means of
conveniently placed gaps in the masonry watched the stranger's approach.
There was nothing about the man's appearance to suggest that he was
anything but an ordinary holiday-maker. He was slightly above average
height, rather heavily built, and inclined to flabbiness. His
complexion was undoubtedly florid, although his face and hands were
tanned a deep brown.
He was dressed in a light-grey lounge suit, with a straw hat and brown
shoes, while in his right hand he carried a thick Malacca cane.
The exertion of climbing up the hill on which the ruined chapel stood
apparently told upon him, for he was considerably out of breath when he
passed under the ivy-clad arch. Here he stopped to wipe his face with
a handkerchief, and while doing so dropped his cane.
It fell upon the stones with a dull thud.
At the same time the stranger gave vent to an exclamation that
certainly was not English.
The lads exchanged glances. Here was the beginning of a mystery. The
heaviest Malacca cane would not have made that dull metallic sound in
falling, while it was evident by the careful examination the stranger
made of the retrieved article that he was more than considerate for its
appearance.
The man made no attempt to explore the ruins. The weather-worn fane
had no attractions for him. It was apparently only a rendezvous, as
far as he was concerned, for at frequent intervals he would walk
stealthily through the archway, and look attentively down the hill
leading to the coves on the side facing the mainland.
It had now begun to rain--big drops that were the precursors of a heavy
shower. The lads, in their exposed position on the tower, paid scant
heed. Their interest and attention were centred upon the anxiously
awaiting stranger fifty feet beneath them.
Presently Ross happened to glance towards the stretch of water that
separated St. Mena's Island from the mainland. A boat was approaching.
Already it was more than half-way across. It was a rowing-boat,
containing only one person. What object would anyone have in rowing
across on a wet afternoon like this? wondered the lad.
Just then the stranger began rubbing his hands with ill-concealed
satisfaction. Although he had been frequently on the look-out, he had
evidently only just caught sight of the approaching boat.
The lads watched the little craft till it was hidden by the intervening
high ground, but already Ross felt certain that it was making for Main
Beach Cove.
There were three landing-places on St. Mena's Island--Half Tide Cove,
where the lads had left their stranded boat; Main Beach Cove, a little
to the north-east; and Deadman's Cove, farther away. Of these, only
Main Beach was available between one hour on either side of low water.
The fact that the boat was making for it, and had already successfully
skirted the submerged reef lying off it, proved that its occupant had
local knowledge.
Some considerable time elapsed between the temporary disappearance of
the boat and the appearance of the new-comer; but at length he came
into view, walking rapidly up the steep incline without showing
anything of the physical strain that the first stranger had betrayed.
Suddenly Ross Trefusis recognized the man. He almost felt inclined to
laugh at his suspicions. It was Dr. Ramblethorne, the medical
practitioner at St. Bedal--a town of considerable importance about
seven miles from Killigwent Hall. The doctor was a frequent guest of
Admiral Trefusis, and was generally considered a good, all-round
sportsman. He was about thirty years of age, over six feet in height,
of sinewy frame and of great muscular power. He was the wildest
motorist in that part of Cornwall, as the endorsements on his driver's
licence testified. A keen golfer, good shot, and fisherman, he was
also a botanist; and that, perhaps, thought Ross, might account for his
presence on St. Mena's Island, although it was difficult to reconcile
the fact that Ramblethorne had an appointment with a stranger at this
desolate spot. If a joint botanic expedition had been fixed up, why
had not the two men met on the mainland?
The unknown made no attempt to advance to meet the doctor. Instead, he
remained within the ruins until Ramblethorne entered.
Their greeting was a surprise even to the lads, for the doctor, holding
out his hand, exclaimed in German:
"Well met, von Ruhle! Let us hope that your arrangements will prove
satisfactory."